


where trash would turn to gold

by Byacolate



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Drabble, Established Relationship, F/M, Showers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2015-12-02
Packaged: 2018-05-04 11:31:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5332571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Byacolate/pseuds/Byacolate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You‘re all the same, you pre-war cryo softskins, with your <i>standards</i> and your <i>hygiene</i>.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	where trash would turn to gold

He can‘t remember the last time he stood vigil for something so... innocuous. They‘ve scoured every corner of the facility, razing synths from the roof to the basement, so it probably isn‘t necessary. Still, the bone-deep sigh of relief that fills the sterile little room serves as a reminder that it‘s for a good cause. A little peace of mind is the least he can afford her, after... well. Everything.

 

So Hancock chills in the doorway of the old chem lab basement like a watchdog while the shower runs behind him.

 

He doesn‘t sneak a peek either - not out of a sense of honor, really, but because when she'd asked him to keep watch, she hadn‘t been talking about her birthday suit.

 

The door to the lab is hanging precariously on its last rusted hinge, so he can‘t really blame her.

 

“There _can‘t_ be any hot water left after a couple hundred years,” he says, a delayed response to her sigh.

 

“It‘s freezing,” she answers with a chipper note that has him grinning. “But it‘s _clean_.”

 

“Gotta love purified water reservoirs. You‘re all the same, you pre-war cryo softskins, with your _standards_ and your _hygiene_.”

 

She hums in agreement, and the repetitive slosh and sluice of water over skin fills the lab. ”Hancock,” she says after a short minute, “could you hand me a bar of soap? I put one in your bag yesterday.”

 

“Oh, ‘zat what‘s been weighing me down?” He sets a couple traps by the door because he‘s cautious like that, and turns to dig through his pack. “Whoa. That, and a truly impressive stock of grenades. Remind me not to wander near any bonfires for a while.”

 

“You‘ve got a good arm,” she says defensively, her voice cracking. It's probably not an emotional response to the trueness of his aim. He grabs a can of purified water while he‘s at it, and approaches her with both.

 

There‘s a lot of skin in display. Like, a lot. Seems you‘re not gonna find a lot of shower curtains in an abandoned chem lab basement. But she doesn‘t demure, and meets his eyes with a little smile when he hands her the soap. It quirks, amused and fond, when he pushes the water at her, too. The fine, frigid spray bounces off her skin and onto his hand. “ _Christ_ , that can‘t be comfortable.”

 

“Not even a little,” she agrees between sips.

 

Her lack of self-consciousness is more than a little distracting, and Hancock does his very best not to notice the dark expanse of skin in his periphery. He ain‘t a gentleman, he‘s just... making sure she finishes the whole can.

 

When she hands the can back, though, there’s a peculiar look in her eye and a wry twist to her lips. “Flustered?” she asks - not unkindly, but as though the possibility comes as a surprise.

 

“Around you? When am I _not_.”

 

He gets a playful flick of water to the face for that, and bares his teeth before he turns his back to her.

 

“You look real good for two-hundred-some years, you know that?”

 

Her laugh‘s a quiet thing beneath the tinny trickle of the chemical shower. “So they tell me.”

 

Yeah, people like to comment on how well-preserved she’s kept in this world of mutants and ghouls. For what it’s worth anymore, Hancock regards her as one might a piece of fine art - a distant past where the sunset was a spectacle and not the harbinger of monsters in the dark.

 

“What can I say? I‘m really into the way you could probably bench press me without breaking a sweat.”

 

“I bet you say that to all the girls.”

 

“Only in a perfect world.”

 

She laughs again, and it‘s goddamn poetry.

  
"Enjoy your shower, sunshine; you've earned it." 

 

"I wouldn't say I'm the only one," comes her casual voice from behind him. He cocks his head to the side.

 

"Careful; might take that as an invitation."

 

"Might've meant it as one."

 

He hisses just loudly enough to be heard over the noise of the shower. "You make even a cold shower sound enticing. Some kinda pre-war witchcraft?"

And there, he's made her laugh again. The shower's put her in a chipper mood. It's something to remember.

 

"I think you've got some deathclaw behind your ear," she says, and it's his turn to laugh taking off his hat and tossing it in the vicinity of their packs.

 

"You've twisted my arm," he says, going for the buttons of his coat next. "Make room. One supremely shriveled hunk of ghoul comin' right at you."

 

"Set another trap mine, just in case," she insists. Hancock heaves a sigh.

 

"You cryo softskins and your _safety_ -" he starts, before a splash of water douses the back of his head.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Wolf Parade's "Palm Road"
> 
> Inquire about fic requests [here!](http://wardencommando.tumblr.com/ask)  
> If you are so inclined, feel free to follow [my Tumblr](http://wardencommando.tumblr.com/).


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